01-09-2011, 07:15 PM
through the crook of an elbow like a rabbit I crawl,
resting my cheek in a furrow of flesh;
the sun dapples on us, leaves
each fallen from our mother branch
to lie beside in disarray
his fellow's browning corpse.
and like lost leaves on a much weathered path,
we've felt the bootsoles of people,
been trampled, trodden, pried free from their shoes
with a stick. how often does love
have the glory of hate? we should be thankful,
for no man was sainted who hadn't suffered.
resting my cheek in a furrow of flesh;
the sun dapples on us, leaves
each fallen from our mother branch
to lie beside in disarray
his fellow's browning corpse.
and like lost leaves on a much weathered path,
we've felt the bootsoles of people,
been trampled, trodden, pried free from their shoes
with a stick. how often does love
have the glory of hate? we should be thankful,
for no man was sainted who hadn't suffered.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe